


The Final Musings of the Last Dragonborn

by PhoenixofFire177



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Multi, Unconventional Families, Werewolf Mates, bad metaphors, consensual polyamory (prior to marriage), did i marry vilkas just for this fic's plot in-game? yes, eventual detailed death and funeral, sass courtesy of everyone's favourite merc, the end of the world happens three (3) times, the greybeards are somehow the most sane characters in this entire fucking fic, windhelm's still got racism :/, yes i did
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixofFire177/pseuds/PhoenixofFire177
Summary: A letter to the reader:I have recorded here all you could ever wish to know about the legendary last Dragonborn. These events are written exactly how I witnessed them, which means that some stories may be biased thusly. Please, take into account that this is not a history book, nor will it ever be. I have no intention of writing the stories that Skyrim's Nords will sing long into the decades to come. This is merely my account of the journey of the Dragonborn and should be taken with a grain of salt.I hope you are satisfied with what you discover,(The signature is blurred beyond all recognition)





	The Final Musings of the Last Dragonborn

“I wonder what songs they’ll end up writing when I die.” 

 

He looked up from their crude fire quickly, whipping his head to stare at his companion. Despite the bitter cold and seemingly endless barrage of snow, he could see her features with a near startling clarity. Her blank, milky eyes that somehow still could communicate expression, the jagged scars across the right side of her face that he knew still ached in extreme cold, the purple war paint that had long since dried and now fell away in flakes; each feature one he’d analyzed countless times, learning about her every quirk and flaw. She was serious about this, her near-useless eyes fixed on the glowing embers before them. 

 

“Oh, they’ll certainly write about all the bounties you’ve collected. Maybe they’ll even throw in the things you’ve stolen if you’re lucky.” 

 

It was a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, and both of them knew it. That still didn’t stop a ghost of a smile from gracing her lips. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and let out an exasperated sigh. 

 

“And I suppose my legacy will be one of deceit and murder? Not at all involving the four or five times I saved all of Skyrim from certain death?” 

 

He snorted softly and nodded, prodding the fire with his sword. 

 

“See, now you’re getting it. Just think of the possibilities: Anabiel Darkblood, robber of Jarls! Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” 

 

Her shoulders pitched together and her breath came in quick puffs in a way he’d come to understand meant that she was laughing too hard to vocalise. Her knee hit him softly, the ebony armour rattling his bones despite his chitin-encased boots. 

 

“That would mean you’re an accomplice, my dear Teldryn.” 

 

Her words were lighter now, not as heavy and carefully considered as they had been a few moments ago. Her head, sans her gangly masque, rested against his shoulder, and not for the first time, he felt a familiar stab of emotion. Normally he had severe reservations about being even remotely considered ‘with’ his employers… but this was different;  _ she  _ was different. Teldryn Sero watched his employer’s breath cloud in the freezing air, saw the subtle droop of her eyes, and shook his head. 

 

“The things we do for glory.”

She snorted at that, a dopey smile painted across tired features. 

 

“It’s hardly glory. For the love of Hircine, we’re stranded on a mountain because  _ someone  _ wanted to run off and chase the troll.” 

 

The someone in question was already curled up next to the fire, his leather harness drying out nearby. Sceolang’s deep breathing came in slow repetitions, making him look like a sculpture carved from the snow. No matter what she might say, that dog was her pride and joy, and she could never stay mad at him. 

 

And as for the troll… well, if their fire burned more vibrantly than usual, no one said anything. 

 

Everyone knows troll fat burns better than even the most brittle wood. 

 

He stared into the fire a bit longer, not quite willing for her to move just yet. Moments like these were rare nowadays, especially with the end of the world no longer a certainty. 

 

Perhaps it was a lack of purpose, or maybe even the lack of adventure, but she’d been on edge ever since returning from Sovngarde. They’d only spent four days with her family before heading out on the road once more. Frankly, he’d have liked to stay longer. 

 

Instead, he followed her blindly, always ready with a sword and sarcastic quip. Between the two of them, they were a force to be reckoned with; the scourge of foes from Solstheim to Markarth. 

 

Their days were filled with odd jobs and citizen requests; their nights with mead halls and camping. 

 

Virtually perfect in every way. 

 

Except… 

 

She spoke of death more often, constantly talking about her own passing. Just two days prior she’d asked if he’d stay by her side when she died. Of course, he’d agreed, pulling her closer in their shared bedroll and whispering endless nothings into her hair until his voice was hoarse and the sun threatened their peace with dawn’s first rays. 

 

At one time, death had been an ‘if’, not a ‘when’. She teased him constantly in their first few days of travelling together, most of which revolved around him eventually killing her to steal extra gold. In those days, he merely muttered a soft ‘one of these days, I just might’, and she’d chuckled evilly. 

 

“I’d leave you the money anyway if I die.” 

 

He’d been tempted to believe it was true after awhile. She cheated death so many times on Solstheim alone that he was certain death  _ was  _ an if for the Dragonborn. 

 

He watched in awe as she took on creatures more than twice her size (which wasn’t exactly hard, given her short stature), and came away with nothing worse than a few scratches. Not even blood dragons shook her, giant winged beasts whose screeches were enough to send even the most hardened warrior fleeing. 

 

This phenomenon was something he’d already been well acquainted with by the time they’d met up with the Telvanni wizard. Neloth had been deceived too, the wizard fretting uncharacteristically when she’d been overwhelmed within the Dwemer ruins. Teldryn had to physically hold him back, with the help of his flame atriarch, and force him to realise she could hold her own against automatons.

 

Then, death hadn’t been a remote possibility. It was only natural that things would change. 

 

When she’d finally told him about Miraak, he hadn’t been sure what it had to do with him. Sure, the priest was the first Dragonborn and therefore a very distant forefather, but none of that meant anything to him. He was a spellsword, he’d often said, anything else was above his pay grade. She rolled her eyes then, slipping him three rubies before continuing her story. By the end of it, he understood why they were crawling through the darkest corners of Solthsteim looking for this black book. More importantly, he understood why they needed more than one. 

 

He let her enter Miraak’s twisted version of Apocrypha (not without a lacking of protesting) and watched as her form was grabbed by the demonic tentacles of Hermaeus Mora, eventually falling limply to the ground. The people of Raven Rock gathered to watch the stranger who freed them from the Earth stone’s grasp writhe in agony in the centre of town. Teldryn waved them off, cradling his employer’s body in his arms. He’d pulled her masque off, trying to read her features for some hint that life remained in her limbs. 

 

She didn’t wake up for a good day and a half. 

 

Several times during the night she’d flickered as if her physical form was fading without her dragon soul, and he’d clutched her tightly to his chest in fear of losing her. They stayed that way all through the night, him waking occasionally to brush swaths of reddish-brown hair away from her face. 

 

When she awoke, she cried. He’d been jolted into action suddenly, tightening his hold around her in a desperate attempt to soothe. Teldryn had intended to reprimand her for going without him, but one look at her stricken expression said it was best to leave it alone. Instead, he murmured softly to her and picked up her still limp body, carrying her to the tavern. 

 

She blubbered all that night, talking about horrible monsters and the three dragons she’d watched sacrifice themselves for her to live. When he finally got a coherent thought out of her, she only had one thing to say. 

 

“I d-died so  _ many  _ times, Teldryn… and I just kept coming back to the beginning. I watched Sahrotaar sacrifice himself over and over just so I could defeat Miraak…” 

 

He’d hushed her softly, tucking her head beneath his chin as they laid on his bed together, having long since learned that the Dragonborn  _ thrived _ on sappy physical contact with her friends. She melted into his chest, her hands shaking as her arms wrapped around his torso. His shirt had long since been soaked through by tears. 

 

“And in the end,” she sobbed, “I didn’t even defeat him. Hermaeus Mora s-stabbed him through and I stood and f-fucking watched.” 

 

What could he say? She’d never broken down like this before; not in the seven months in which he’d known her. They’d never shared feelings before- well, at least not on this scale. The most he’d seen was her unabashed wonder at the netches and her quiet determination that surfaced every time a new hardship was thrown their way. This was a completely new territory. 

 

In the end, she fell asleep still whimpering. Her hands had long since tangled themselves in his shirt, pulling large bunches of musty fabric away from his back. The area around her eyes was puffy and inflamed; her hair a tangled bird’s nest, but to him, she’d never looked better. 

 

There’s something binding about experiencing Hell with someone. It links the two of you inextricably, and you couldn’t leave one another even if you tried. Honestly, you’re not sure you’d want to. 

 

It’s a powerful link, driving the two of you to cling to one another in unfamiliar situations, and to keep a close eye on your partner in the familiar. The constant vigilance is hardly the highest price to pay for the reassurance for them to stay alive. The only alternative is being completely and irreparably alone. 

 

She took him with her when she left Solstheim. 

 

They boarded the boat together, his eyes tearing over the island’s profile one last time before they set sail. The crew bustled around them, almost as if they were invisible. He couldn’t find it within himself to complain. 

 

The wintry sea air rustled her loose hair, momentarily blinding him in the forest of auburn locks until it disappeared under her helm. She was mostly silent, her shoulders slouched and tucked under his arm. Teldryn would have complained, but this was the calmest she’d been all week. Besides, he wouldn’t lie and say it wasn’t comforting to have her beside him once more, solid and whole.

 

She squeezed his hand before they docked in Windhelm, her quickened breathing exposing her nerves. Strange, he never thought the Dragonborn would fear anything. But she was still mortal, despite the dovah soul within. 

 

As the imposing walls of the city grew ever closer, he recognised the dock workers- all Argonian and still suffering under the lash of the guards. Once upon a time, they’d been close. It’s amazing what changes in two years. 

 

Still, they passed into the city; he felt their eyes on him and shuddered. Despite his heavy chitin helmet, they stared deeply into his very soul, as if they could sense his regret at leaving. She nudged his shoulder gently, guiding him into the city limits. The gate closed behind them, guided by fur-shrouded Nords carrying heavy iron weapons. 

 

They stopped at the local inn that night, her gold uncomfortably handed over the counter to a sneering Nord woman. Candlehearth Hall hadn’t changed a bit; the patrons were still rude and mouthy, the mead still watery and weak. 

 

A meek serving girl led them to the rented room, her eyes kept downcast as Anabiel swept past her into the barren quarters. The child trembled with fear as his mistress set down their packs and removed her gangly masque. Teldryn almost felt bad for her; he too knew what an imposing figure she made to townsfolk. But when that tell-tale smile spread across her face, he watched as the child straightened up and relaxed. 

 

“Here, dear one. Take this for a job well done.” 

 

Ever generous, Anabiel passed the girl- really, she was no more than 17 summers old- a rounded sapphire, and was met with the embrace of an overjoyed and underpaid servant. For a brief moment, he was struck by just how loving this woman was, especially for an Imperial. And if he hid an affectionate smile behind his helm, no one had to know. 

 

After renting the room, he left her to freshen up, heading upstairs to the gathering area. The bard, a sweet Dunmer woman, sang off-key folk songs as a dozen or so men laughed and drank. Teldryn took a table for himself in the far corner. 

 

He watched out of the corner of his eye as the group surrounded the bard and jeered at her. 

 

He watched her lute be ripped from her grasp. 

 

He listened as a very drunk Stormcloak soldier declared his undying hatred for the Dunmer people, spitting a mouthful of mead in the woman’s face. 

 

He watched as his employer ran up the stairs, her demonic glowing mace readied alongside a bundle of flames. 

 

It took a moment for the crowd to notice her. But by the time they did, her mace had met the face of the nearest man and the flames kissed the leg of another. The stricken bard was positioned behind her, trembling yet unable to look away from the scene. The rest of the crowd couldn’t either, for that matter. 

 

She shot him a look over her shoulder, her expression one of exasperation. Clearly, she enjoyed this no more than he. Teldryn sighed and stood up, drawing his sword and taking his customary position at her left, careful not to get burned by the spell still flickering across her open palm. Faced with a growing opposition, the burned man slunk off into the corner, back to his glaring friends and their drinks. The other man, however, stood up (for the force of her blow had knocked him flat on his ass) and got in her face, growling angrily. 

 

“By Talos, woman, don’t you know better than to defend one of them grey-skins?!” 

 

Anabiel said nothing, her face a mask of calm and determination. The bard, Luaffyn, cowered behind her but made no move to remove herself from behind the protective barricade. Honestly, he couldn’t blame her; these types of men are nothing if not persistent. 

 

“Ain’t you got anything to say? Or are you damn Imperials too proud to lower yourselves to speak to a lowly Nord?” 

 

A muttered protest came from another man, wisely advising his man to step aside. 

 

“Rolff, she’s not messing around. You’d best back down and let the poor bard be.” 

 

“No, no! I wanna see this bitch try to explain why she’s stepped into our business.” 

 

She barely even flinched, getting directly in the man’s face. Her breath danced across his jagged features, the way the winds whip across the vast, empty expanses of Elsweyr. When she finally spoke, her voice was not nearly as welcoming as those winds. No, instead it was bitter cold, tearing into him with icy shards, pricking his rough skin until he could no longer weather the ferocity in her stormy facade. 

 

“Listen to me, Rolff, and listen well. I am Anabiel Darkblood, thane of Whiterun, Falkreath, Dawnstar, and Solitude, the advisor to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, and the champion of many Daedra. Do you truly wish to test my patience?”

 

Rolff shook his head rapidly, the close confines getting to him at last, causing him to back away slowly.

 

“If I tell you to let this poor woman be, would you return to your drink? Or would I have to use a bit more…  _ persuasion _ ?” 

 

A hand hovered threateningly over a wicked blade strapped to her thigh, and he swallowed heavily.

 

“I-I reckon not, lass.” 

 

She backed away, a bright smile cast upon her face seemingly from nowhere. 

 

“Good. I’m glad we could settle that diplomatically.” 

 

Teldryn had never been more terrified or more aroused in his entire life. This woman was an utter enigma, and intimidating to boot. 

 

As they’d settled into bed that night, he could barely keep himself from tracing over her lips reverently with his thumb. The amount of bravery it took for her to stand up for that bard… Azura help him, it was probably the most attractive show of strength he’d ever seen. 

 

It was only before falling asleep that night that he considered that maybe he was in way over his head, but he was far too gone to care.


End file.
